Someone at work today said, "Oh, it's your birthday this week? Forty-six, right?"
He was not kidding. He is a really nice guy. I hate everything.
Also, I went to the fridge today, because I actually GO to the fridge now that Topamax is in my past, and maybe by "Forty-six, right?" that guy at work meant my pants size. Anyway I saw this:
And also this:
Note the special Christmas mayo peeking over the edge to say hi. But that is not the point. The POINT is, do you think Marvin is staying hydrated? I mean, is he SPRINTING to his summer delivery boy job? Is his office in Africa? Is he making special deliveries to the Sahara? Which I guess is in Africa–right?–so that joke was kind of redundant.
What I also enjoy is the variety Marvin brings to his life. The vast abundance of Gatorade flavors he's selected is really something to savor and behold. Did I ever mention to you Marvin prefers a plain doughnut? And his favorite ice cream? Vanilla.
This does not say much for the exotic goddess that is me, does it? I am the plain, 46-year-old-looking vanilla doughnut in the display case of Marvin's life.
When I was a kid, there were times that my Aunt Mary babysat me, which in retrospect is kind of frightening because although she SEEMED like a grownup at the time, in reality she would have been about 19 and fully in charge of me. Which, you know, so was my mother, seeing as she was a ripe old 18 when I was born. The fact that I did not eat a dry cleaner bag by the time I was 1 is a miracle.
At any rate, Aunt Mary and I used to head down to Dawn Doughnuts and get us some doughnuts, which is probably shocking information, and a little smackerel to drink, too. Then we'd head to the park that turned out to be right across from where I got married, but of course I did not know that at the time, seeing as I was four and not into dating three-year-old Marvin just yet.
My POINT is two things. Which was a really poor sentence. The first point is I would always, ALWAYS pick the holiday doughnut right in the front display case. Like, if it was near Easter, I'd take the doughnut they'd decorated with pink and green jelly beans and little plastic bunnies on a stick and so forth. Or the 4th of July one with red-white-and-blue frosting. Whichever doughnut was the gaudiest, most drag queen, Liberace-thinks-it's-too-over-the-top-looking doughnut, that was my selection.
I really have not changed much at all. Cause I am so gettin' the Hello Kitty fried cake or whatever.
The other thing is that when it came to selecting my drink, I often went to the cooler, there, at Dawn Doughnuts. And do you remember those drinks they used to sell in those opaque plastic containers, and you peeled the tin foil top off, and when you drank from the top of the container it kind of cut your lips?
I got one of those drinks once, and when we got to the park and I'd peeled off the top, I took a drink and announced to my Aunt Mary, "This tastes like armpits and wires."
My Aunt Mary thought this was hilarious, and she told my mother later, who similarly thought it was a hoot, and the crux of this story is that I peaked at four. That was it for me. I bowled them over in 1969, at the Objibway Island park, there. It was my Budokan. My "I see dead people." My Come On, Eileen.
Oh, well. I may have dried up, but I have plenty of Gatorade.